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Though your visions of lawn
Have all been withdrawn, And you miss’d your bold stroke for a mitre,
In a very snug way
You may still preach and pray,
TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
With a crook in his lot,
A neat Codicil
To the Princess's Will,
So the Doctor, being found
A little unsound
And kick'd from one stool
As a knave and a fool,
In that gown, like a skin
With no lion within,
And roareth away,
A true Vicar of Bray,
“?Gainst free-thinkers,” he roars,
"You should all shut your doors, Or be bound in the Devil's indentures.”
And here I agree,
For who ever would be
Let the Priest who beguiled
His sovereign's child
Wear the sheep's clothing still
Among flocks to his will,
The Altar and Throne
Are in peril alone
The Altar itself
A shop let for,pelf,
But, Doctor, one word,
Which perhaps you have heard“They should never throw stones who have Of glass” to be broken:
[windows And hy that same token, As a sinner, you can't care what sin does.
But perhaps you do well:
Your own windows, they tell, Have long ago suffer'd erasure;
Not a fragment remains
of your character's panes, Since the Regent refused you a glazier.
You have ask'd for a verse-the request,
In a rhymer, 't were strange to deny; But my Hyppocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence bas pencilld so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell. I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head. My life is not dated by years ;
There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain; For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.(2)
OH!--my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover ?
it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? Far--far away! and alone along the billow ?
Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!
Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from break
ing, In relurn for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.
Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him! And then expire of the joy—but to behold him!
Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!
(1) Dr. Nott, tulor to the late Princess Charlotte of Wales, (3) Written by Lord Byron, and given to the Countess Guicwho preached a Sermon denouncing Lord Byron's Cain as a cioli, a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant blasphemous production.-E.
to suit the Hindostanee air—"Alla Malla Punca," which the (2) Composed December 1, 1819.-E.
Countess was fond of singing.- E.
Shorter's my reply, and franker,That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker. Yet if you could bring about Just to turn him inside out, Satan's self would seem less sooly, And his present aspect-Beaúly. Mark that (as he masks the bilious Air, so softly supercilious) Chasten'd bow, and mock humility, Almost sicken to servility; Hear his tone (which is to talking That which creeping is to walking, Now on all-fours, now on tip-loc), Hear the tales he lends his lip to; Little hints of heavy scandals; Every friend in turn he handles ; All which women or which men do, Glides forth in an inuendo, Clothed in odds and ends of humour Herald of each paltry rumour, From divorces down to dresses, Women's frailties, men's excesses, All which life presents of evil Make for him a constant revel. You 're his foe, for that he fears you, And in absence blasts and sears you. You're his friend-for that he hates you, First caresses, and then bails youDarting on the opportunity When to do it with impunity: You are neither—then he'll faller, Till he finds some trait for salire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Where it injures to disclose it, In the mode that's most invidious, Adding every trait that's hideousFrom the bile, whose blackening river Rushes through his Stygian liver. Then he thinks himself a loverWhy? I really can't discover, In his mind, age, face, or figure; Viper-broth might give him vigour,Let him keep the cauldron steady, He the venom has already. For his faults-le has but one, ’T is but envy, when all's done. He but pays the pain he suffers, Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Lights which ought to burn the brighter For this temporary blighter. He's the cancer of his species, And will eat himself to pieces,Plague personified, and famine,Devil, whose sole delight is damning.
ON SAM ROGERS.(2)
Many passengers arrest one, To demand the same free question.
(1) This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.-E.
(2) The author of The Pleasures of Memory, Italy, elc.
For his merits, would you know 'em ? Once he wrote a pretty Poem.
Missolonyhi, Jan. 22, 1824. (3) 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move :
Still let me love!
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
Are mine alone!
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
A funeral pile !
The exalted portion of the pain
But wear the chain.
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor Where glory decks the hero's bier, (nowo,
Or binds his brow.
Glory and Greece, around me see!
Was not more free.
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none. There is a form, on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delighiBy day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night. There is a voice, whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture through my breasl.I would not hear a seraph choir,
Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face, whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheekBut pallid at one fond farewell,
Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip, which mine hath press’d,
And none had ever press'd before, It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only dress'd it more. There is a bosom-all my own
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts, whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet,
They both must heave, or cease to beat.
And then strike home!
(1) Sir Ralph Milbanke and his Lady were addicted to sre- other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthquent domestic quarrels. The Lady had a dog, highl Trim, on day, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better whose death she requested her son-in-law to write an epitaph, iban what I usually write.' He then produced these noble and on which he immediately produced the above.-E.
affecting verses." Count Camba.-E. (2) Written on reading in the newspapers an address to Lady
(4)“We perceive, from these lines as well as from his daily conHolland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the versations, that his ambition and his hope were irrevocably fixel soulf-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning :
pon the glorious objects of bis expedition to Greece, and that “Lady, reject the gist," etc.-E.
he had made up his mind to return victorious or relürn no more.” (3) “This morning Lord Byrorf came from his bed-room into Ibid. the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were (5) Supposed to have been addressed to Lady Byron but a assembled, and said with a smile-You were complaining, the few months ere their fatal separation.
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt
On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,
And I will learn to prize thee less, As thou hast fed, so let me flee,
And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They 'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd,
Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh’d, nor frown’d, as if I deem'd
That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this struggle-to undo
What thou hast dóne too well, for me-
This treachery-was truth to thee!
Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
(Ah! need I name her!) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe
To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure,
Since still the vulture tears my heart, Let me this agony endure,
Not thee, oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara ! let us part,
And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task,
And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence—'t is all I ask
Ere time mature a guillier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquenchably devour
A heart whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,
Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,
From woe like ours—from shame like thine! And if there be a wrath divine,
A pang beyond this fleeling breath, E’en now all future hope resign:
Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death!
THE PRINCE OF WHALES. lo Pæan! lo! sing To the finny people's kingNot a mightier whale ihan this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatler fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea : See his blubber-at his gills What a world of drink he swills,
There are two souls, whose equal flow
In genıle streams so calmly run,
They cannot part-those souls are one.
How many number'd are, how few agreed,
But he, the author of these idle lines,
blooms, What joy elates him, and what grief consumes ? Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, What matters!-bootless were his story told. Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; He wrote these verses, but he hid his name.
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. And say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me?
Mistake not my passion for love,
’T is your friendship alone I request. Not ten thousand lovers could feel
The friendship my bosom contains; It will ever within my heart dwell,
While the warm blood flows through my May the Ruler of Heaven look down,
And my Mary from evil defend !
May her happiness ne'er have an end !
Fareweil! I with anguish repeat; For ever I'll think upon you,
While this heart in my bosom shall beat.
From his trunk as from a spout! Which next moment he pours out. Such his person: next declare, Muse! who his companions are. Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind, But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep; Mermaids, with their tales and singing, His delighted fancy stinging; Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Dog-like seals, they fawn around him: Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea-sharkfor his solace and relief Flat fish are his courtiers chief; Last and lowest of his train, Ink-fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite(Sach on earth the things that write) In his stomach, some do say No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwell’d, But in one have been expell’d. Hapless mariners are they Who, beguiled, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Fooling sure, safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find, Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath themDoes to ruthless waves bequeath them. Name or title, what has he? Is he regent of the sea ? From the difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus! With his wondrous altributes Say-what appellation suits ? By his bulk and by his size, By his oily qualities, This, or else my eye-sight fails, This should be the Prince of Whales.
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
Too loved of all to die. I know not what hath seard mine eye:
The tears refuse to start;
Falls dreary on my heart.
They sink, and turn to care;
Yet, dropping, harden there.
Than feelings sunk remain, Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.
ON THE LETTER I.
TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE.
Adieu to sweet Mary for ever!
From her I must quickly depart: Though the fates us from each other sever,
Still her image shall dwell in my heart. The flame that within my breast burns
Is unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; The love which for Mary I feel
Is far purer than Cupid bestows. I wish not your peace to disturl),
I wish not your joys to molest;
(Written in a Lady's Scrap-Book.)
But in infancy ever am known;
I always am greatest alone.
You may search all the sky-I'm not there:
noon, You may plainly perceive me—for, like a balloon,
I am midway suspended in air.
Wealth ne'er did my presence desire!
Though I serve as a part of the fire.